


giving voice to secret desire

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Look I don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Sixty-six years go by like a second when you’ve lived a thousand, but Zelda finds herself waiting impatiently, like her body knows, muscle memory built up after ages and ages. Satan’s mistress has come to her bed with many faces, but when she appears one night, wild hair and dark eyes, Zelda thinks she might like this face best.





	giving voice to secret desire

**Author's Note:**

> look, i don't know how we're referring to michelle gomez's character so for ease of writing, i'm just gonna use the name of the persona she adopted! mary wardwell! there we go!
> 
> title from _macbeth_

Zelda doesn’t know when it started, nor how. It’s been years, centuries, and she’s beyond questioning it. She doesn’t know how the other woman will appear, only that she will. 

Sixty-six years go by like a second when you’ve lived a thousand, but Zelda finds herself waiting impatiently, like her body knows, muscle memory built up after ages and ages. Satan’s mistress has come to her bed with many faces, but when she appears one night, wild hair and dark eyes, Zelda thinks she might like this face best.

“Sabrina’s teacher?” she asks, arched brow, the smell of her cigarette making everything smell slightly of brimstone, though it might be emanating from the woman in front of her just as easily.

“I go where the Dark Lord commands,” comes the reply, and even her voice is rich and lovely, wraps around Zelda like a caress. 

“Even here?” Zelda reaches a hand out, can’t resist touching those brunette strands any longer, dark enough they might even be considered black.

“We’ve an understanding.” Zelda can’t imagine how one strikes a deal with the devil, thinks perhaps it’s more a matter of not asking questions, of omitting unnecessary truths.

Mary Wardwell’s skin is soft, shows signs of age but she wears it well. She leans slightly into Zelda’s touch, pursing her lips so the corner of her mouth just touches her palm in a kiss. It’s enough of an invitation and Zelda pulls her in, knotting that thick, luxurious hair between her fingers.

When they kiss, it isn’t sweet, it isn’t nice, but it is wonderful, erotic, and Zelda imagines it like magic sparking all the way down her spine, a cauldron bubbling in the pit of her stomach, the molten quicksilver of attraction.

Zelda finds herself pressed against the wall of the front hallway, only just realizes they haven’t made it any further into the house, her cigarette banished into the ether. Perhaps they’ve both been waiting for this day, they’ve both been restless. 

Their bodies fit together well, their height matching. Zelda’s always been this tall, but in the past has found herself standing up on her toes or craning her neck down. It’s always different, when they meet. This time, it feels right, correct.

She tries to remember where her niece is, her sister, her nephew, mutters a spell to ward them away as Mary moves to suckle at her neck, her teeth sharp against her tendon, her tongue a soothing counterpoint. The whisper of magic escapes her and she gives herself wholly over to sensation, feels the dark magic of ecstasy creep upon her.

Mary’s nails are sharp, claws against her shoulders, keeping her pinned in place as her mouth works assiduously, and Zelda tilts her head back, exposing her long pale column of neck, hears the breathy approval escape from Mary’s lips.

“Always so lovely,” she whispers, serpentine and seductive. “Such a relief the court returned your youth to you.” Zelda groans and Mary’s nails dig in more deeply, tearing into the silk of her dress. 

Zelda uses her hands in Mary’s hair to pull her head back up so they can stare into each other’s eyes. She sees nothing but inky blackness, deadly pools, an unplumbable abyss. She wonders fleetingly what Mary sees in her eyes.

Their lips meet again and it’s a fight for power, for dominance. Neither one of them has ever liked ceding control, neither one gives up easily. Mary bites Zelda’s lip, hard, enough that the coppery taste of blood fills Zelda’s mouth. One of her hand anchors in Zelda’s hair, mussing her perfect curls, and the other hand creeps down Zelda’s body, like a spider in search of prey.

She regrets the dress she’s wearing, knows she might’ve worn something different if she’d been expecting company, expecting this particular guest. But Mary manages, ripping fabric slightly, right at the seams, offers no apology, just a forceful push against Zelda’s underwear, damp almost to the point of soaking. She has been waiting for this, waiting so long.

“You’re ready,” Mary hisses, her lips curved in a lascivious smile, her fingers toying at the edge of the elastic, the nail of her forefinger equal parts frightening and alluring, the sharp point like a pinprick of desire. 

Zelda just nods, knows she’ll return the favor soon enough, and Mary pushes up Zelda’s skirt, holds it at her waist with one hand, her thumb pushing down on Zelda’s hip. She waves her fingers and Zelda feels the cool air against her heated center and gasps at the sensation. She does so appreciate a well-timed spell. 

Mary’s fingers are nimble and sure, but they are powerful and painful too. Zelda bites her own lip now, still tender, as Mary slides into Zelda one finger at a time, and she can feel herself stretching and expanding at the attention, hears herself begging for more. 

Her clit is throbbing and Mary won’t touch it, catlike pleasure at avoiding the place Zelda most wants her. She captures Zelda’s mouth once more, full force, her tongue sliding in with no preamble. Zelda feels devoured as she grinds against Mary’s hand, trying to force contact where she needs it. 

“Patience, darling,” Mary purrs. “If service of the Dark Lord will have taught you anything, it’s patience.” Her voice is so smooth that Zelda thinks she could be lulled into anything under different circumstances, but she feels so riled, so wild, that nothing can calm her even as Mary’s hand continues its rhythmic, hypnotic movement.

“Service of the Dark Lord has taught me to take what I want when I can get it,” she spits out, removing one hand from Mary’s hair, almost regretfully, and wraps her fingers around Mary’s wrist, guiding her hand where it should be, where she wants it, and Mary cackles into the dimly lit house, the noise echoing around.

“You’ve become a sybarite, Zelda,” Mary says, but she isn’t chastising. She lets Zelda move her hand, her fingers, begins her rhythm again, this time moving her thumb against Zelda’s clit, back and forth and all around, and Zelda feels her whole body thrumming to life, a sensation she hasn’t felt in decades.

“It helps to pass the time,” she says on a moan, her hand dropping from Mary’s as she scrabbles for the door handle, for the wooden moulding on the wall, for anything to help her stay vertical as she feels her body cresting, her chest rising, her heart opening, the blood in her veins singing out in hedonistic pleasure.

Her eyes are closed as she comes, and she gives herself over to feeling, Mary’s hair tickling at her chin, her hand never ceasing its movement, her breath hot against Zelda’s collarbone. “Worth the wait?” Her tone is teasing and Zelda doesn’t even bother to open her eyes as she nods.

“I imagine you want a turn,” she offers throatily, and turns on her heel, walking up the grand staircase, up to her bedroom, sure as anything that Mary will follow. 

There’s no talking as they move through the house, they don’t even touch. That’s never what this has been about. When they reach the room Zelda shares with her sister, she turns, her hand on the doorknob. “You won’t say anything to my niece about this, will you?” Sabrina seems to have a mysterious distrust of the Dark Lord as it is and Zelda doesn’t want to give her any more reasons to dislike him, give any more credence to her arguments against signing her name.

“My lips are sealed.” Every word from Mary’s lips feels like a secret code, like there’s a second meaning, a joke she’s not sharing. Zelda doesn’t want to spend this time parsing out entendres, opens the door and pushes Mary down on the bed, against the silken comforter.

She could use a spell to undress the woman beneath her but Zelda wants to take her time, wants to peel back the layers of this woman, to make this moment last her for the next sixty-six years. 

Mary’s skin is pale, as pale as Zelda’s, stark against the black of her dress, her hair spilling out against the bed, a fallen angel begging to be defiled again and again. 

She begins the removal of Mary’s clothes, stripping the armor of her human disguise away. She looks delicate, almost fragile, her lingerie as black as Zelda expected, lace and silk and inviting. Mary looks up at Zelda from the nest of her hair, challenging her to make the next move, her expression inscrutable, though she’s never been easy to read, not with any face she’s worn.

Zelda removes the last layers, undergarments flying away with the snap of her fingers, and Mary is bare beneath her, looks anything but vulnerable. She leans down, kisses Mary once on the lips, then begins an eager journey across her skin, leaves the mark of her teeth on each breast, enjoys the way her body contracts at the touch, the way her nipples pebble and peak. 

Her witch’s mark is on her hip, a small dark spot that Zelda laves with tongue, imagines magic sparking up from it to meet her mouth. She looks up at Mary’s face, still so unreadable. One more long moment as she gazed at her beautiful visage and then she lowers her mouth to Mary’s thighs, as pale and lovely as the rest of her.

The coarse hair at the apex of her legs is lush with the musk of her and Zelda finds she can’t get enough of the heady scent, noses right in, and then tongues against Mary, licks right into her, finds she tastes just the same, of burnt cinnamon and soot, unmistakeable and only her. 

Mary is silent as she arches up against the bed, her breasts standing at attention, her fingers dating into the fabric and Zelda knows what true power is, having the Dark Lord’s mistress writhing beneath her, wordlessly begging for more. There’s a magic in this, secrets not written in the Spellman grimoire.

When she comes, it’s with a shout, an unintelligible word, and Zelda knows the sound will stay with her for years to come, every sensation of this moment etched into her mind for ages. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t let Mary rest, but continues her assault, watches as her body moves, undulates. 

Zelda brings her fingers to join her mouth, to keep her on the edge, to make her shout and scream again and again, knows it’s as much a display of dominance as it is to bring Mary pleasure. 

A hand against her shoulder is what stops Zelda, and she realizes for the first time that she’s still fully dressed, thinks that’s another point for her, that she’s winning at the moment.

Her chin is coated in Mary’s wetness, her tongue flicking out to catch the flavor. Once again, Mary’s fingers twitch, her lips move in a spell, and Zelda’s clothes vanish. She moves up Mary’s body, retracing the path from before, this time in reverse, skin sliding against skin, and Zelda thinks she’s never felt anything so luxurious, not in all her years on this planet. 

She straddles Mary’s hips, unwilling to cede control, but can see the glint in Mary’s eyes as she reaches up, scraping her nails against Zelda’s front, leaving slight red marks in her wake. She pinches a nipple, then the other, a look of almost wonderment on her face as she catalogs Zelda’s reactions.

There’s a long moment where they stare into each other’s eyes and Zelda almost thinks she could fall in, thinks this must be what it is like to be in the presence of the Dark Lord himself, the wanting to give oneself over completely, the inability to look away, the welcoming emptiness of a chasm. She finds herself leaning forward unconsciously, and Mary stretches up to meet her, kissing her once more.

The kissing lasts for longer now, the edge taken off, and Zelda finds she can just revel in the feel of Mary’s skin under her hands, in the feel of their lips moving in tandem, the way their breasts press together, how they just seem to fit.

The sharp feeling of Mary’s nails against her spine, like the lashing of a whip, brings Zelda back to herself and she pulls away, arching at the erotic combination of pain and pleasure, has never been able to get enough, to find her fill. She thinks Mary knows this, as her nails continue to scrape, as her teeth bite into her collarbone, their hipbones rubbing together.

Mary hitches a thigh so Zelda finds herself astride it, ruts against it at Mary’s silent urging. She nips at Zelda’s breasts as she moves, captures a nipple in her teeth and doesn’t let go, making Zelda cry out, unable to keep it inside, the push and pull of it all making her lose any semblance of control. 

She’s so often coiled up, wound like a spring, to find release, to find a moment of freedom - it’s rare and beautiful, and she reveals in it, knows this is a gift from Satan, whether or not he knows he’s given it.

When they’re both spent, used up and tired, Zelda feels like it’s been just a moment, even as she feels like it lasted days. Mary pulls her clothes on without speaking, becomes a high school teacher once more, all that passion and flame hidden behind her prim exterior, only the flash of her eyes and the quirk of her lips giving any hint as to the hidden depths below the surface.

She doesn’t return Zelda’s clothes to her, doesn’t call them back from wherever she banished them. She leaves Zelda splayed out on her bed, naked and beautiful, no promises given between them, just the knowledge that they’ll find each other again, sixty-six years hence.


End file.
